


Easier With You

by addicted2hugh, FinAmour



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Boys Kissing, Caring John Watson, Established Relationship, Fluff, Frottage, Insecure Sherlock, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Light Angst, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Third Person, Parentlock, Pillow Fights, Porn with Feelings, Purple Shirt of Sex, References to Sherlock's past, Rosie being awesome, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Smut, The cutest family ever, Top John Watson, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-28 20:51:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18213467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/pseuds/addicted2hugh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: Sherlock smiles slightly, his forehead coming to rest on John’s, and he lets out a tiny sigh. “It’s not myself I worry about, John.”“I know,” John says, his nose brushing against Sherlock’s. “And I will support any decision you make. But Rosie is going to be happy with you no matter what. You truly are her hero, you know that?”Sherlock exhales a small laugh. “Am I?”“That’s not even a question that needs answered, Sherlock. She’s amazed by you.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock smiles again and wraps his fingers around John’s hand, lifting it to his mouth and setting a kiss onto it. He then sets another, and another. His eyes open, and they are bright and full of honesty. “John Watson,” he says. “Right now, the only wish I have is to kiss you.”

John loves afternoons like these: dry, sunny Mid-November afternoons when the leaves are bright and crisp, and the air is brimming with an earthy, brisk aroma. Days he’s got no plans, no late patients, and no paperwork, and he can leave the clinic before the sun goes down.

He’s decided he’s going to surprise Rosie today.

He can’t wait to see her blue eyes light up, her pink cheeks dimpling with excitement as he walks up to meet her after school. It’s her first year of primary, and she has already exhibited the signature Watson self-reliance—but each time he takes her tiny hand into his or hears that small but stubborn voice, he’s reminded that she’s still his little girl.

As he approaches the school gates, the large oaken doors open, and he can already spot Rosie skipping down the stairs, surrounded by her classmates. They all scatter in the schoolyard, greeted by their mums and dads and caretakers. John walks closer, and as she races across the lawn, spirited and full of confidence, he thinks to himself, a bit bittersweetly, that she’s not so _little_ anymore.

The instant she notices him, her face becomes illuminated with happiness.

“Daddy!” she squeals, running over and throwing herself into his arms. “Where’s Hudders?”

John catches her, kissing her on the cheek before setting her back onto the ground. “Hello to you, too, darling!” he says, frowning in mock disappointment.

She grins up at him, her blonde hair glinting in the afternoon sun. Sarcasm is not lost on her, thanks to the influence of Sherlock—who insists upon talking to her as he would any other adult, and has done so since the day she was born.

“Daddy!” she exclaims, bouncing with excitement. “You and Papa are coming to school with me next week!”

John furrows a brow at her; he’s not heard anything about this. “Pardon?” he asks, perhaps a bit too apprehensively.

“You’re my favourite grown-ups,” Rosie impatiently responds as she reaches into her school bag and retrieves a folded piece of paper.

John takes the paper from her and unfolds it—it’s a letter from her form teacher, Mrs. Wallace.

 

_“Bring Your Favourite Grown-up to School” Day_

_Have your favourite grown-up accompany you to school and talk about their hobbies, professions, or anything they’d like to share!_

_We look forward to meeting them!_

_-Mrs. W_

 

“You and Papa will talk about serial killers and dead people,” Rosie states, her voice boisterous, her blue eyes sparkling.

John laughs. Ah. More of Sherlock’s influence. He reckons he should ask her to speak more discreetly about the endeavours of the notorious detective and his live-in partner, but it’s not exactly a secret.

“Sounds amazing, Bumblebee,” he answers. “Why don’t we run home and tell Papa all about it?”

“Alright!” Rosie squeaks as she turns towards the bus stop and dashes away, leaving John—and her school bag—behind.

John sighs and chuckles to himself. “I didn’t mean actual _running_ ,” he murmurs under his breath as he leans down to collect her bag. He takes one more quick look a the note before folding it up and placing it in his trouser pocket.

He’s actually quite excited for the opportunity to show off their little family, to watch Sherlock speak about the brilliant things he does, and to meet the parents of the students Rosie speaks so fondly about. Sherlock probably won’t be so keen on interacting with the other people, but that’s fine. They’ll make it work; they always do.

Rosie!” John calls out. “Get back here, you!”

 

***

 

John and Rosie walk through the door of 221B Baker Street to find the windows open wide and Sherlock busying himself with an experiment. This is nothing out of the ordinary, of course—by now, John is used to entering the flat to see Sherlock engaged in activities of all sorts; usually involving poisonous substances, or exotic weapons, or dangerous clients, or all of the above. This particular one involves a Bunsen burner and several beakers containing murky liquids in varying shades of green—some of which emit tiny clouds of foul-smelling vapour. John doesn’t usually think twice about something as seemingly benign as chemistry, though, even if he is quite certain that it isn’t remotely child-safe.

“Papa!” Rosie is every bit as brimming with enthusiasm as she’s been since John met her after school. Without removing her coat and shoes, she dashes across the sitting room to hug Sherlock, who takes a few steps towards her and sweeps her off her feet before she reaches his work table.

“Hello, Watson,” he says as he kisses her cheek. “You mustn’t inhale that,” he adds. “I’m still not sure what exactly it does.”

He carries her over to where John is standing with Rosie’s purple school bag slung over his shoulder, still slightly out of breath from climbing the stairs, and he smiles. It’s the small, almost-shy smile John has always adored—the one that’s accompanied by a look of affection from underneath long, dark lashes. The fact that he’s wearing protective goggles does nothing to lessen the effect—in fact, if anything, it only makes him more adorable.

“Hey,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Hey, love,” John replies. He leans in for a kiss, but the fluffy hood of Rosie’s coat is in the way, and their noses collide as they try to avoid it.

“Hold still,” John instructs with a laugh, cupping Sherlock’s chin with his hands before bending upwards and kissing his lips.

“Mm,” Sherlock hums happily. “Much better.”

“Papa! You and Daddy are coming to speak at my school next week!” Rosie announces. With this, Sherlock’s smile falters, and the moment is gone.

“Pardon?” he asks, leaning away from John, his nose briefly crinkling in surprise. It’s only a second until he’s back to normal, but John knows that look—it’s more than confusion; it’s nervousness.

He sets his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, lightly grazing down his arm as a gesture of comfort. “I had the same reaction,” he explains with an encouraging smile. “It’s not as big of a deal as it sounds. We’re just meant to go and talk about what we do for a living.” He reaches into his pocket. “Here,” he says as he pulls out the folded paper from earlier.

“Hm.” Sherlock takes the letter, but barely acknowledges it as he sets Rosie back down. “Coat off, Watson. I’ve made us some tea.”

“And sandwiches?” Rosie wants to know as she skips away. “Or biscuits? Or scones?” she babbles on, still giddy. “Oh! Scones! Please?”

“Go on.” Sherlock says, lightly shooing her away. “It’s a surprise.” As she trots off, the corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches in what might be amusement, but John sees something else in his eyes—something that wasn’t there when they entered the flat.

John watches him as he follows behind her towards the kitchen, quietly taking off his goggles and tossing them—and the letter—onto the table absentmindedly as he goes.

It’s plain to see that something is bothering him, but as worried as John is, he doesn’t press it. He’s sure Sherlock wouldn’t want to discuss it in front of Rosie, anyway. Still, he can’t help but wonder: is it something he’d said? He seemed to have gone cold and distant at the mention of Rosie’s school event. Could it have something to do with that? And if so, why would that make him act in such a way?

John sighs, feeling a bit helpless, and takes off his own jacket before joining Sherlock and Rosie in the kitchen. He knows Sherlock will speak to him when the time is right.

He just hopes that time is soon.

 

***

 

After tea, Rosie chats about her schoolmates and the things she’s learning in class; Sherlock chats with Rosie about bees and organic chemistry and DNA technology; John listens to both of them with a smile on his face. John cooks dinner that evening: Asian stir fry with chicken and vegetables. John and Rosie end the evening reading a book together on the sofa, the way they often do, Sherlock watching over them from his table as he continues to tinker with his experiment. Everything feels perfectly normal at the forefront, but John knows Sherlock well enough to know that something is bothering him. He’s been deep in thought all evening, and it’s not the “thinking about how to solve a murder”-type deep. Rather, it’s the type of deep he’s in when something is troubling him.

Even after they’ve put Rosie to bed and got beneath the covers themselves, John suppresses the urge to ask about it. But when Sherlock turns down the duvet and lies on his back with his long fingers splayed over his stomach, staring up at the ceiling in pensive silence, his eyes are dark and sad, and John can no longer ignore it.

John finally sets down the book he’s been reading and turns to face his partner, ready to grant him all of his attention. “Listen, love,” he says as he takes Sherlock by the hand. “I don’t mean to jump to conclusions, but is there something bothering you?”

Sherlock gives John a half-smile and squeezes his hand back. “I’m...alright.”

John tips up his head and places a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “Hm,” he says. “Alright. Because if there were something bothering you, I’d be happy to let you talk to me about it. Sometimes talking about things can make it better, you know?”

“I honestly _don’t_ know,” Sherlock responds stiffly, continuing to gaze at the ceiling. “It’s not as though I’ve ever had someone to _talk_ with about...things before. Or that I even would have, given the chance.”

“Fair enough,” John says as he runs his thumb along the inside of Sherlock’s wrist. “We don’t need to…I just. I just want you to be happy. That’s all. And if I can help you be happy in any way—“

“John,” Sherlock interrupts, the bridge of his nose wrinkling with frustration. “You always make me happy. Always.”

Sherlock’s words touch something deep inside John. Sherlock may not find it easy to express his feelings, he thinks, but since they took the step beyond friendship, he’s always been incredibly transparent about his love for him.

“No need to discuss it if you don’t want to,” he says.

“You misunderstand me, John,” Sherlock responds plainly. “I _do_ wish to talk to you, but I still find it difficult to identify precisely what I’m feeling, and furthermore, to find the words to describe it.”

John moves his hands over Sherlock’s cotton shirt, glides them up his shoulders and neck. He strokes the side of Sherlock’s cheek, runs his thumb over his sharp cheekbone, and keeps it there. “It’s alright, love,” he says to him.

Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed as John’s hand caresses his face, his shoulders, his neck. “For the first time in as long as I can remember,” he says, “I find myself making progress; my emotions are beginning to make the smallest bit of sense. Because I have you here...and it’s easier with you. Not easy. Just...easier.”

“You make things easier for me, too,” John says. “It’s one of the many reasons we make a great team.”

Sherlock smiles again and wraps his fingers around John’s hand, lifting it to his mouth and setting a kiss onto it. He then sets another, and another. His eyes open, and they are bright and full of honesty. “John Watson,” he says. “Right now, the only wish I have is to kiss you.”

“I’m more than fine with that,” John says with a grin, allowing his hands to fold and fall into the space between the two of them.

Sherlock finally turns onto his side to face John, pinning him with his beautiful, almond-shaped eyes. John thinks to himself, as he nearly always does, that he could get lost in those eyes for a hundred years and never be the wiser.

“Love you,” John whispers, reaching to Sherlock’s temple and smoothing away an errant curl there.

As he kisses him on the forehead, Sherlock exhales heavily, humming with contentment as he fits his body to John’s in a warm embrace. John presses a trail of kisses down his nose, from one cheek to another before brushing his lips against Sherlock’s. Sherlock responds the moment their lips touch, moaning and surging forward to kiss him passionately. The kiss is deep and wanting and candid—but it’s not one of heated sexual desire. No, not this one—this kiss says nothing other than “I love you, too.” In it, Sherlock is offering all of the love and trust he has; and it’s the most precious gift John has ever received.

John gives back willingly, tracing Sherlock’s sweet lips with his tongue, basking in the warmth of his body. “Sherlock,” he murmurs, placing his hand on Sherlock’s chest where he can feel the irregular beating of his heart.

Sherlock tightens his grip around John’s waist, clinging to him as though he may somehow fly away, and Sherlock is the only thing tethering him to earth. “Love you, John. So, so much,” he whispers coarsely between kisses.

John leans back so that he can look at him. Sherlock freezes, his eyes echoing all of the trust and love that had been wrapped in the earlier kiss. “John,” he says a bit feverishly. “I couldn’t bear it if Rosie’s childhood were like mine.” He swallows thickly. “I care far too much for her.”

John’s heart both swells and shrinks at Sherlock’s words. He gazes back at the man he loves so immeasurably—the one he’s loved for so many years. And he thinks he might be able to gather what’s going on in his head, though it’s suddenly become glaringly apparent that he knows quite little about Sherlock’s past.

“Sherlock,” John says soothingly. “I _love_ how much you love our daughter. But she’s surrounded by people who adore her, so I don’t think you’ve got anything to fear for her—”

“I was shunned,” Sherlock states, his voice wavering. “When I was in primary school myself, I was called names because I enjoyed talking about and studying dead things. And truthfully, adults are generally no different. So what if—” Sherlock breaks off with a sigh, sounding almost angry at himself, his words approaching frantic. “What if my showing up to talk about those things only fosters a similar reaction among Rosie’s peers? What if they treat her differently...because of me? What if one of Rosie’s _Favourite Grown-ups_ becomes an embarrassment?”

John kisses him on the forehead delicately. “No. Listen to me,” he says, the firmness in his voice a stark contrast to the tender kisses he places on Sherlock’s skin. “You are one of the kindest, most loving people I’ve ever known. Though you put on this harsh, mysterious persona, you aren’t fooling anyone—not anymore. I’m sorry that people were terrible to you in the past, and I know how much it must have hurt you—and must hurt you, still—but things are different, now. You, like Rosie, are loved by so many, and we would never allow that to happen.” He glances down at the tiny scar on his hand; the one he’d gained by breaking the eyeglasses of a police chief who’d dared to call Sherlock odd. “In case you’d forgotten,” he adds.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and huffs. “Brilliant. And are you planning to punch _every_ six-year-old in the face who has the audacity to say something rude about our daughter, or only a select few?”

John laughs, wrapping his arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulling him in closer. “Most of the people in London already know who we are, and what we do. I guarantee none of Rosie’s classmates, nor their parents, will be the least bit surprised. If anything else, your talking to them about it will deepen their understanding of you, and they will appreciate you even more.”

Sherlock smiles slightly, his forehead coming to rest on John’s, and he lets out a tiny sigh. “It’s not myself I worry about, John.”

“I know,” John says, his nose brushing against Sherlock’s. “And I will support any decision you make. But Rosie is going to be happy with you no matter what. You truly are her hero, you know that?”

Sherlock exhales a small laugh. “Am I?”

“That’s not even a question that needs answered, Sherlock. She’s amazed by you.”

“Well,” he responds, his eyelids growing heavy. “If it will truly make Rosie happy, I suppose I’ll consider it.” As he begins to drift off, John can see the tension pouring off of his body like a rainstorm.

He smiles fondly at Sherlock from across the pillow before setting a kiss on the tip of his nose. “No need to respond for a couple of days,” he says. “Let’s sleep on it, yeah?”

Sherlock doesn’t react. His eyes remain closed, and judging by his steady breathing, it seems that he’s already doing just that.

 

***

 

John doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to waking up with Sherlock in bed next to him. On the nights Sherlock actually decides to sleep, he typically rises at least an hour before John, well into an experiment before John even begins breakfast. So the following morning, when he awakens with Sherlock huddled into him, he savours the moment; the rising and falling of Sherlock’s chest, his warm breath against his neck. He kisses the crown of his head—inhaling the scent of honey and lavender. As he breathes Sherlock in, he is revisited by memories of their conversation the night before. He simply can’t comprehend it; how could anyone not love this brilliant idiot?

He wraps his arms around Sherlock’s back and clutches onto him as tightly as possible, kissing his head again, a bed of soft curls brushing against his nose. John loves this man with every fibre of his being, and some days he can’t even fathom how lucky he is.

Sherlock begins to stir. He makes a sleepy, happy noise of approval and shifts his legs to wrap them around John’s.

“Morning,” John whispers.

“Good morning,” Sherlock husks, his voice rumbling across John’s chest. “What time is it?”

“Seven AM, give or take,” John says, just as Sherlock tilts his head upwards to look at him, his eyes, in their sleepy haze, the brightest imaginable shade of blue.

“I will never get tired of waking up next to you, Sherlock Holmes,” John says, and he leans forward to kiss the top of Sherlock’s eyelids. “Even when I’m eighty years old.”

Sherlock huffs a breath of laughter. “Doubtful. Family history of sleep apnoea. By that time, I’m sure you’ll be sleeping in your own bedroom.”

John puts his index finger on Sherlock’s lips to shush him. “Sleep apnoea’s treatable. And stop trying to ruin my sweeping romantic sentiments with logic.”

At that, Sherlock kisses him.

John places one hand on each side of Sherlock’s face to steady him, his fingers tugging lightly at Sherlock’s curls as he kisses him back. He can feel Sherlock’s lips smiling against his own, and he can’t help but mirror the expression.

“I’ll do it,” Sherlock says as they pull away from the kiss, his words serious and authentic. “I’ll attend the event at Rosie’s school.”

John beams at him. “You will?”

Sherlock purses his lips together and nods. “For Rosie,” he says, leaning forward to rest his head in the crevice between John’s shoulder and neck. “Besides, I’ll have you with me, and there is little I cannot do with you by my side.”

John laughs quietly, rustling the dark hair on Sherlock’s head before kissing it once more. “Rosie will be so happy. I can’t wait to tell her.”

“Mm. John?” Sherlock asks cautiously.

“Yes?”

“How many days do I have to prepare?”

John hesitates, trying to recall the exact date. “I believe it’s next Wednesday. So you’ve got a little over a week to prepare.”

“Only a week? We’d better…” he leans away, a look of panic flashing over his features. “John, I was thinking perhaps we could borrow a corpse from Bart’s and—”

“Absolutely not.”

“A few body parts, then.”

“No.”

“Just one. A leg?”

“Sherlock—”

“A toe.”

John smiles to himself. Although he knows he shouldn’t encourage Sherlock with his crazy ideas, it’s always difficult to say no to him when his face lights up like that. “It’s wonderful to see your enthusiasm,” he says, “but I’m...not quite sure severed body parts are allowed inside a primary school.”

“Who comes up with these ridiculous rules?” Sherlock asks, sighing deeply.

“Don’t know. I’ll call the headmaster immediately,” John jokes. “Perhaps she’ll make an exception, if it’s only _one_ limb.”

“You think so?” Sherlock asks hopefully.

John bursts into laughter. “No. It was a joke, Sherlock. I can’t ask her that.”

Sherlock quickly leans in before John is able to defend himself, opening his mouth against John’s neck and biting down teasingly. “Hilarious, John,” he deadpans.

“Oi,” John spits as he pushes Sherlock away lightly. “That hurt!”

And then, he does what any adult would do—he yanks a pillow from beneath them, and he smacks Sherlock on the abdomen with it. Sherlock whimpers overdramatically like a forlorn puppy, shimmies away from John, and rolls off of the bed. But John isn’t one to give up so easily. He slides onto the floor right next to him, hitting him with the pillow once more as peals of laughter ring out from the both of them.

“Stop this violence!” Sherlock exclaims as he bounds upwards and heads for the door. “Go make me some tea and some breakfast, John,” he calls back over his shoulder.

“Make your own, genius,” John retorts before launching the pillow across the room. He misses; Sherlock has slipped out the door just in time. John laughs, shakes his head, and scurries after him to put the kettle on the stove.

 

***

 

The morning of the event, Sherlock is a bit of a nervous mess.

John attempts to keep his cool as much as possible.

“We decided upon the Edinburgh case,” Sherlock insists. They stand in front of the mirror, John helping Sherlock tie his tie as they debate which case to discuss.

“No,” John disagrees as he loops one end of the tie through the knot. “You decided on it; I did not.”

“But it was a fascinating case, John.”

“Yes.” John finishes up with the necktie and smoothes down Sherlock’s lapels. “But a bit too explicitly gory for our target audience. How about the Birdwell case? People love hearing the part about the hornet’s nest.”

“I never walked into that nest, John,” Sherlock pouts. “That’s simply a story you fabricated for your blog.”

“Yeah?” John grins as he brushes his fingers against the back of Sherlock’s ear. “Well. That scar says otherwise.”

“Dog bite,” Sherlock argues. “I’ve had that scar since I was a child.”

“Mm-hmm,” John hums lightly as he rises to his tiptoes and kisses the spot in question, but Sherlock still has a sombre expression on his face. John know he’s still nervous, and he finds himself wishing he could somehow make this easier for him.

“Fine,” John sighs. “We’ll discuss the Edinburgh case, but perhaps we scrap a few of the details? Such as the part where we found the victim’s entrails in a chest of drawers at his girlfriend’s house?”

“That was the key element in solving the murder,” Sherlock points out. “We can’t possibly exclude it.”

But before John can respond, Rosie comes bouncing into the room. “Daddy! Papa!” she says in awe. “You two look so, so handsome! Like proper movie stars!”

John kneels down to kiss Rosie on the cheek. “You ready to show off your favourite grown-ups?”

“Yes.” Rosie smiles up at John, and then over at Sherlock. John notices a look of concern flash over her features. “Papa?” she asks.

“Yes, Watson?” Sherlock says warmly as he kneels down to meet her eyes.

Rosie lifts an eyebrow, tilting her head to one side as she regards him warily.

“Your jaw and fists are clenched. Your face is slightly pale, and when I came into the room, you were tapping your left foot repeatedly against the floor. Why are you nervous?”

Both Sherlock and John laugh at how serious she is; how young and yet so knowledgeable in reading body language. And John always finds it amusing when she gives Sherlock a taste of his own medicine.

Sherlock leans in and kisses the top of her head, speaking into the soft blonde curls. “Excellent deduction skills, Watson,” he says.

“Daddy?” Rosie turns her head towards John impatiently. “Why is Papa nervous?”

“Oh, Bumblebee, John replies. “Papa’s fine. It’s just a bit of stage fright.”

Sherlock pulls away and brushes a hand against the side of Rosie’s face. “That’s ridiculous,” she says as she frowns thoughtfully up at him. “What have you got to be frightened of, Papa? You’re Sherlock Holmes, the bravest person in the world. Even Daddy says so.”

Sherlock can’t hide the smile this brings to his face, so he takes her into his arms and hugs her tightly. She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him downwards to kiss the top of his head, imitating his earlier gesture.

“You’re right, as usual,” Sherlock acquiesces. “I suppose I am being ridiculous.”

“Well, stop being ridiculous, and put on your coat,” Rosie demands. “We mustn’t be late.”

“Your wish is my command,” Sherlock says with a grin as he stands and faces John. “Ready?” he asks.

“Always,” John replies, taking his hand. “You?”

Sherlock smiles and nods. “Ready.”

 

***

Throughout the cab ride, Rosie sits between John and Sherlock, bouncing and giddy with excitement. She chatters about her classmates’ parents: firemen, doctors, office workers; teachers and service industry workers and even an overseas government interpreter. Sherlock seemingly remains calm, but John reaches over anyway, taking his hand and placing both of theirs in Rosie’s lap between them. Sherlock is pulled from his thoughtful reverie, and they meet eyes over their daughter as she continues to chat. John gives him a smile of encouragement, squeezing his hand just as Rosie sets both of her hands on top of theirs, and they ride the rest of the way just like that.

When they disembark the cab and enter the corridors of Rosie’s school, John is astonished to see that Sherlock isn’t exhibiting telltale signs of nervousness. Sherlock is so well-practised at hiding his emotions, though, that even John, who knows him better than anyone, can barely perceive them at times. But this time, even the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth and the barely-there hunch of the shoulders are hidden amidst his trademark air of confidence.

As Sherlock walks hand-in-hand with Rosie, who skips at his side, he seems remarkably comfortable in his skin. John isn’t sure if it’s a testament to how brave he’s trying to be for Rosie, or if he’s actually feeling alright about all of this, but either way, he couldn’t be prouder.

It all changes when they enter the classroom.

Every pair of eyes settles onto Sherlock, and the room begins to buzz with an excited energy. But once Rosie lets go of his hand and darts off towards her friends, Sherlock wilts. John can tell how nervous he is, that he’s now questioning his decision. He touches Sherlock’s shoulder lightly in solidarity.

“He’s here!” a small boy calls out from a desk in the third row, followed by a roar of tiny, happy cheers as several children gravitate towards Sherlock.

“That’s my Papa,” Rosie announces proudly. “Sherlock Holmes.” She looks up at Sherlock with the biggest smile on her face, giving him a giant thumbs-up. Sherlock grins at her, flashing a thumbs-up back, and with that, he seems to relax again.

John watches as about a dozen fascinated six-year-olds surround Sherlock. Several of them are wearing miniature deerstalkers, gazing in awe up at Sherlock as he gazes back with just as much wonderment in his eyes.

“It’s really you,” one little girl says, amazed.

“Yes.” Sherlock nods and extends a hand towards her. “Sherlock Holmes. Nice to meet you.”

“Do you really solve murders?” asks a boy with red hair.

“All the time,” Sherlock replies.  

“Do you see a lot of blood and guts?” the girl besides him wonders aloud.

“Oh, lots,” Sherlock states. “In fact, just last week, I discovered a man who’d had his entire skull bashed in by a—“

 _“Ahem,”_ John quickly intervenes. “Can’t talk about that to children,” he reminds Sherlock under his breath.

“—a man who encountered an...unfortunate…run-in with a piece of sports equipment,” he corrects himself, not missing a beat. He looks down at a young girl in a deerstalker who stands next to him, clutching onto the sleeve of his coat. “Love your hat.”

“Where’s yours?” the girl asks.

“It’s er…at the dry cleaner’s,” Sherlock fibs.

Rosie’s teacher wanders over into to the newly-formed crowd of children. “Friends, let’s allow Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson to settle in and take a seat, shall we? There will be plenty of time for questions later!”

She promptly herds the children back to their designated seats, and the other adults, who are hanging out in the back of the room quietly—all wearing approving smiles—watch on. John and Sherlock meet eyes once again. Sherlock’s face is overcome with relief, and John’s heart feels incredibly full. Because Sherlock is now free to be himself, finally, not only in a classroom of his peers, but Rosie’s peers as well.

And that morning, John and Sherlock stand in front of all of them and talk about a few of their cases. Later, John doesn’t quite recall which cases they decided upon—could have been the Edinburgh one, gruesome details and all. What he remembers is the look of utter fascination and curiosity the children give him, and how peaceful and content Sherlock is as he talks about what he loves.

John never could have guessed how difficult it would be for them to say goodbye at the end of the day. He had assumed Sherlock would be bursting through the exits, ready to head home, but he willingly stays and speaks with every person there. Every child who wants to say hello and give him a high-five and tell him he’s their hero. Every adult who wants to thank him and John for the “amazing work” they do. Even Mrs. Wallace extends a grateful hand and lets them know how much she truly appreciates them being there.  
And once everyone’s had a chance to say goodbye, there’s only Rosie. She gazes up at Sherlock, her smile bright, not saying a word.  
“Watson,” Sherlock nods. “I’d say that was a success, wouldn’t you?”

She giggles and darts forwards, wrapping her arms around his legs, burying her head in his coat. “Love you, Papa,” she mumbles into the thick wool.

His eyes meet John’s just as she says those words, and he smiles at him, and John smiles back. “Love you too, Watson.”

 

***

 

Though it’s still chilly outside, the sun is out, and the three of them elect to walk home. They stroll together hand-in-hand, Rosie skipping down the pavement between them.

“Daddy! Papa!” she exclaims as they pass a small ice cream parlour. “Hudders says when you do something good, you get ice cream as a reward. I think you should have some ice cream, Papa.”

“Ice cream in November?” John laughs as he looks down at her. “Bit cold for that, don’t you think?”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock says. “If Watson wants ice cream, then ice cream she shall have.”

John smiles and nods. “You two are mad,” he says with a slight eye roll. “But if that’s what makes you happy, go on.”

They walk into the small shop. Rosie stares in fascination at the plethora of flavours before ultimately deciding on something with pistachios; Sherlock goes for plain vanilla. John orders a coffee, and they reconvene on a bench in a nearby park. Rosie insists on sitting in Sherlock’s lap as they devour their cones together, the three of them chatting enthusiastically between bites.

Rosie wraps one arm around Sherlock’s as the other holds onto her ice cream, and John simply leans back and watches them.

The two loves of his life.

They can’t seem to get enough of one another, and John can’t get enough of them, either.

And as they finish their snacks, Rosie leans her head onto Sherlock’s chest, seeming to have reached a stage of delirious exhaustion. Sherlock smiles down at her before taking a napkin from his pocket and wiping a speck of green from her cheek. As she drifts off, Sherlock pushes a strand of blonde, curly hair behind her ears. She begins to snore lightly, and Sherlock looks down at her with so much love. John can’t find the words to express how he feels, so he says nothing as they bask in the autumn breeze.

“I’m incredibly proud of you,” John says to Sherlock after a few moments. “For facing your fears. And I know she is, too.”

Sherlock looks back up at John. “You think so?” he asks.

“I _know,”_ John reiterates.

Sherlock doesn’t respond; he simply rests his chin on Rosie’s head.

“And how do you feel?” John asks.

“I’m ready to go home,” Sherlock replies, wrapping his arms more tightly around their daughter and standing up carefully so he doesn’t awaken her.

John nods. “Let’s go home, then.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t get enough of you,” John mumbles fervently against his lips.
> 
> Sherlock shivers as his eyelids slide shut.
> 
> John moves his hands to the nape of his neck and runs his fingers through his hair from there, making his way up to the tender skin behind his ears, rubbing slow, soothing circles into his scalp. “I want to show you off to the world,” he whispers. “Look at my gorgeous, perfect man. He’s a genius. He’s beautiful, inside and out. He’s so strong, and so brave, and so fucking brilliant.” John doesn’t hold back; his heart is full to bursting. He wants to stand outside on the street and scream it to the whole of London; he’s so in love.
> 
> “And he’s mine,” John murmurs coarsely. “All mine.”

That evening at home, John cooks dinner while Sherlock plays a round of _Code Breaker_ with Rosie, which she wins. John can practically hear her gloat over it all the way from the kitchen, as well as her eye roll at Sherlock’s clearly irked response:

“ _Congratulations_ , Watson. However, I believe the winner has to clear the table. Apologies, but that’s the rule.”

“Sometimes I could swear the two of you are the ones who share DNA,” John mumbles to himself in amusement as he stirs the Chicken Madras simmering in the pot before him. “She definitely doesn’t inherit that cheekiness from me.”

“Oh, I beg to differ.”  Sherlock’s voice unexpectedly chimes in from right behind him, and John applauds himself for not jumping and thus revealing that he’s just given him a massive fright.

“Hm, your brain may be slowing down with age, but at least you’re able to get your _body_ moving,” John retorts drily as he reaches up to open the cupboard above the stove.

Sherlock approaches him, presses himself against his back, and breathes into his ear.

Oh, God. Though Sherlock has never really been the type to adhere to the rules of personal space, there are times when it’s one or two innocent steps too close, and there are times when he uses it very deliberately as a method of driving John mad.

This one is definitely the latter.  

“There are a great many things I’m still able to do with my brain, John,” he rumbles. “And my body, as well. I can give you a demonstration, if you’d like.”

John shivers at the feeling of ten long fingers splaying across his abdomen. He tries—but fails—to keep his reaction to Sherlock’s touch at bay as the stack of plates in his hands wobbles dangerously.

“Careful,” Sherlock exhales hotly against his neck. “You’ll drop those.”

“Thanks,” John grinds out through clenched teeth before managing to balance the dishes out again. “Very considerate of you.”

Sherlock’s low chuckle ripples against the back of his head when he kisses him there. “You smell,” he then informs him and folds himself even more tightly around him.

John huffs.

“It’s been a long day—I suppose I could use a shower. But thanks for pointing it out,” he mutters, slightly taken aback, upon which Sherlock hums lazily and nuzzles his cheek.

“You smell _good_ ,” he clarifies. “Warm. Spicy. Hmmm...I seem to have worked up an appetite.”

John’s defences crumble as his body begins to hum at the sensation of the other man’s warm embrace, enveloping him and bathing him in the unique aroma he’s come to associate with _home._ He puts the plates down on the worktop and grips Sherlock’s forearms instead, closing his eyes and leaning into him. “You just had ice cream,” he murmurs.

Sherlock brushes his earlobe with his lips in a barely-there kiss. It’s tender and fleeting and yet, John can tell, _far_ from chaste. He wonders how he does it.

“I think I deserve a reward far better than ice cream, don’t you?” Sherlock whispers.

“Sherlock—” John breathes, but his words are cut off by Rosie’s voice coming from the other room.

“Daddy! Papa!” she yells out, and the two men, sober at once, drop their arms automatically. John’s eyes fly open, and Sherlock buries his head into John’s shoulder to hide his laughter.  

Then, he moves his hands to John’s hips—making it slightly easier for him to focus.

“Yes, Bumblebee?” John calls back, subtly clearing his throat as he retrieves the spatula from the counter and continues to stir the Chicken Madras. He can’t conceal his own amusement, chuckling under his breath at the sound of her small feet pattering into the kitchen behind them.

“Can we watch a movie after dinner?” she asks, oblivious to the moment she’s just interrupted, stepping closer to wrap her arms around their legs. “Please? I know it’s not the weekend yet, but today is a special family day, right?”

John furrows his brow at her; he senses foul play. “Have you already asked Papa and he said no?” he wants to know.

At the tender age of six, Rosie has already perfected the art of button-pushing to a tee, and John is very aware of that. Sherlock’s lessons in reading body language only give her more ammunition to work with.

“No, Daddy!” she answers with an air of injured innocence. “Papa told me to ask you, and to be sure to include the bit about it being a special family day, because then you’d be more likely to say yes!”

She blinks up at them, and John feels Sherlock’s ribcage vibrate against his back with silent laughter. John, suppressing the irritatingly pleasant shudder that runs down his spine at that, turns his head to stare at him, torn between amusement and indignation.

“How dare you?” he mouths with an expression of mock dismay before looking back down at Rosie.

“Tomorrow’s a school day,” he reminds her, trying for a stern tone and knowing full well that he’s going to give in. She’s too sweet, and the day has been too perfect, and he’s high on his loved ones being happy and on being utterly happy himself. “I don’t want any fuss when I come and wake you up.”

“Promise!” She nods emphatically, her blonde curls bobbing.

“Alright, then,” he says, reaching out to ruffle her hair. “Papa can help you pick one, and afterwards, the two of you can lay the table.”

Rosie beams at him and grabs Sherlock’s right hand, trying to pull him into the direction of the door. “Let’s go, Papa!”

Sherlock lets go of John to follow her, but not without planting one last kiss into John’s hair and mumbling, barely audibly: “I suppose I’ll retrieve my reward later.” John shoots him another look as a reminder that this is neither the time, nor the place for amorous innuendo, and Sherlock grins and allows himself to be dragged out of the room.  

 

***

 

After dinner, John and Sherlock do the dishes together. Rosie, on John’s orders, goes and puts on her pyjamas and brushes her teeth, and fifteen minutes later they are all settled comfortably on the sofa, watching _Peter Rabbit_ —Rosie’s current favourite. John reckons that Sherlock must indeed be drained after this eventful day; he makes only _one_ remark about the moral dubiousness of fooling small children into believing in talking animals, and even that one seems rather muted and half-hearted.

When Rosie starts to fall asleep halfway through the movie, sprawled out into both of their laps at once, John picks her up to take her to her bedroom, upon which she stirs, gazes at him blearily, and says: “But I want my bedtime story first.”

Her eyes flutter closed again immediately afterwards, and John chuckles exasperatedly and slowly makes his way down the hall.

“You’re already half-asleep, Bumblebee,” he replies lowly. “Let’s skip this one, okay?”

“Please, Daddy,” she mumbles into his neck as he carries her upstairs, which makes him smile despite himself.

“Alright,” he agrees, knowing that she won’t make it further than a few pages in this state of exhaustion. “Suit yourself.”

After laying her down and tucking her in, he reaches for her copy of _The Happy Prince and Other Tales_. Just as he’d predicted, she falls into a deep slumber within two or three minutes of hearing about the selfish giant and his beautiful, lonely garden.

He sits on the edge of her bed for a little while longer, just to watch her sleep and enjoy the first real quiet moment of the day. As he looks at her peaceful face, he wonders if she senses what she’s done for Sherlock today—and how she’s helped him learn to accept himself a little more.

“Thank you, Bumblebee,” he whispers and presses a soft kiss onto her brow. “Sweet dreams.”

He then gets up and leaves the room, quietly closing the door behind himself.

 

***

 

When John returns to the sitting room, he’s stunned by the perfect scene that awaits him. Sherlock has turned off the television and dimmed the lights, creating a romantic ambience, and the thick, woollen blanket that’s usually kept neatly folded on the sofa is now spread before the fireplace. He’s sitting cross-legged on the blanket, gazing up at John with an expression that is equal parts _come hither_ and _you’d better not mock me for this._

“Hey, you,” John says, smiling at him. “What’s all this?” As he takes a step closer, he notices two glasses of red wine on the floor right next to Sherlock.

Sherlock responds with an impish, satisfied grin, but doesn’t say anything.

John pauses, taking in the sight before him. “May I join you?” he then asks.

Sherlock snorts softly. “I was contemplating downing both glasses myself. But I suppose I could make an exception for you.”

John smirks, toes off his shoes, and sits down next to him, his limbs cracking loudly as he folds them to accommodate the limited space next to the lanky form of his better half.

“Why hello, old man,” Sherlock jokes and holds out one of the glasses to him.

The flickering light of the flames behind him makes the wine sparkle, its deep ruby a beautiful contrast to the colour of his eyes, which seem to have turned a much darker shade of blue, accentuated by the halo of glowing ebony curls framing his face.

“Ever the romantic,” John retorts and rolls his eyes, but takes the glass offered to him and raises it in a toast. “To a successful day,” he says, pleased with the faint grin that earns him. “And to making our daughter very happy,” he adds, a bit more serious now.

Sherlock blinks at him, the smirk fading from his face, replaced by a weird mixture of pride and self-consciousness. They each take a sip, staring at each other over the rims of their glasses, then put them aside again.

“You did so well today, Sherlock,” John says. “You really did. I’m proud of you. I know this was hard for you—on so many levels. But the kids were hanging onto your every word, and Rosie’s over the moon with joy.”

Sherlock shrugs, looking bemused. “It wasn’t as bad as I had anticipated,” he confesses. “People did seem to enjoy themselves.”

“How could they not? You’re brilliant. You were amazing.” John smirks at him. “I believe there were quite a few mums you impressed as well. And…” he winks facetiously. “It helped that you wore the purple shirt.”

Sherlock frowns at him in indignation, and John is astonished to see him blush.

“Really, John? Those are the mothers of your daughter’s friends.”

John raises his hands in an appeasing gesture. “Well, _sorry_ —I thought you’d be flattered.” He reaches up and puts his hands around Sherlock’s face to stroke his cheekbones with his thumbs. “I mean, for Christ’s sake, Sherlock. Have you not _seen_ yourself? Do you not know how incredibly gorgeous you are? People do notice.”

Sherlock’s gaze softens at that, the fine lines around his eyes crinkling, though he still looks slightly embarrassed. “All that matters to me is what you think of me, John,” he says, very quietly. “You and Rosie.”

John shuffles a bit closer to him. “I’ve told you before—Rosie very clearly adores you. And I…” He drops his right hand down to Sherlock’s chest and trails his index finger down the button row of his purple shirt in a teasing, barely-there touch. “I love you,” he continues, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “And seeing you in this shirt drives me absolutely mad.”

Sherlock sits in front of him, frozen in that strange sort of stupor that tends to befall him when John compliments him on his outer appearance. John has always found this endearing, but also a little sad. Sherlock is driven by praise and flattery in almost every respect, as John found out early on in their acquaintance, but whenever the topic of his own sex appeal comes up, his otherwise brilliant brain shuts down. For some reason, he can’t seem to grasp the whole extent of John’s adoration—not even after all of their years together.

“Make some room,” John whispers and nudges Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock shakes his head as if to clear it and does as he’s told. He unfolds his legs so that John can slip between them and put his own legs around his narrow hips, lowering himself into his lap, not breaking eye contact the entire time. He then slings his arms around Sherlock, bringing their fronts together until not an inch of air is left in between, and he rests their foreheads together.

“I can’t get enough of you,” John mumbles softly against his lips.

Sherlock shivers as his eyelids slide shut.

John moves his hands to the nape of his neck and runs his fingers through his hair from there, making his way up to the tender skin behind his ears, rubbing slow, soothing circles into his scalp. “I want to show you off to the world,” he whispers. “Look at my gorgeous, perfect man. He’s a genius. He’s beautiful, inside and out. He’s so strong, and so brave, and so fucking _brilliant.”_ John doesn’t hold back; his heart is full to bursting. He wants to stand outside on the street and scream it to the whole of London; he’s _so_ in love.

“And he’s mine,” John murmurs coarsely. “ _All mine.”_

Sherlock blushes deeply; the translucent hue of pink crawls up his face to tinge his cheekbones, his nose, and even his ears, and John can’t help himself any longer. He pulls at the smooth curls winding around his fingers to draw Sherlock in for a kiss.

The moment their mouths touch, Sherlock opens his lips and sighs softly, and then his tongue is there, rubbing against John’s in a tender caress. His large hands come up to cradle the sides of John’s head, his thumbs brushing the shells of his ears, giving him goosebumps all over. With a small moan of pleasure, John deepens their connection, catching Sherlock’s perfect Cupid’s bow between his lips to nibble and suck, then moves on to his plump bottom lip and grants it the same attention. He simply can’t get enough of Sherlock’s mouth, which was made for snogging in front of the fireplace—or anywhere, really.

“Mmhhh,” Sherlock hums, his deep, contented purr vibrating through John’s chest as if they were only one being.

He slides his palms down John’s back, and digs his fingers into his jumper in a possessive gesture. John groans, liquid heat pooling in his abdomen and licking up his spine, his pulse accelerating. Suddenly the air around them feels too warm to John, too stuffy, and they’re definitely wearing _way_ too many clothes. And he’s exceptionally glad that Sherlock doesn’t appear tired anymore; quite the opposite.

Sherlock moans and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of John’s trousers, grazing the top of his buttocks as he does so. The contact is electric.

“I want your skin,” he mumbles into their kiss.

“Hmpf,” John huffs and bites down on Sherlock’s bottom lip, tugs at it with his teeth before letting it go again and pulling back to look at his face. Sherlock’s pupils are blown wide, making his irises look almost entirely black.

“Christ,” John rasps, his own voice so deep he barely recognises it. “Sherlock.”

He’s already hard, and Sherlock is, too, and there’s nothing he wants more than to throw him onto his back, peel him out of his expensive suit, and make love to him right here on the floor. But he knows he can’t. Not there.

“Bedroom,” John groans. “If Rosie…”

“Mm,” Sherlock sighs, but makes no move to disentangle himself from John’s embrace. Instead, he slips his hands beneath John’s jumper and pulls at the shirt he’s wearing underneath, trying to get at more bare skin to stroke and knead and scrape against with his blunt nails.

“Sherlock,” John repeats. “We’ve got to—” he cuts his own words off by latching onto the long, white neck so conveniently located in front of his face and licking a deft stripe from his pulse point up to his jaw. _God_ , it tastes fantastic. “We’ve got to— _bedroom_ , Sherlock. _Now_.”

Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobs against his mouth and he can hear him swallow. “I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

John forces himself to let go of him and leans back to unwrap his legs from his waist.

“Up you get, then,” he says. “Come on.”

They scramble to their feet, Sherlock throwing off his jacket, somehow (John really doesn’t know how) managing to _not_ knock over the wine glasses, which are still sitting on the floor, barely touched.

The haze of deep, heady desire clouding his mind makes it difficult to get a grasp on anything, and it takes all of his energy to concentrate on simply moving his feet in a straight line. This endeavour isn’t made any easier by Sherlock very insistently holding onto him as they walk, his fingers halfway under his shirt again, his mouth busy devouring his ear. It’s a miracle that they don’t crash into furniture on their way to the bedroom, which suddenly seems very, very far away.

“Hold on, love,” John tries to protest when one of Sherlock’s hands starts to fumble with the button and zipper of his trousers. “Let’s take this sl— _oh!_ ”

Sherlock has found his erection and grabbed it without preliminaries, squeezing it through the thin fabric of his pants. John’s knees buckle even as he tries to walk on. He needs to lie down, stat.

“Sl- _oh?_ ” Sherlock echoes him, his baritone rough with arousal, but also laced with a hint of humour.

John laughs deliriously. There’s the door. Oh God, _finally_.

They stumble into the room and somehow Sherlock has the presence of mind to lock both the bedroom and the bathroom door to keep out any surprise visitors. And then, they’re kissing again, deeply and urgently, and Sherlock removes his hand from John’s crotch to cup the side of his face and to trace his cheekbone with his thumb. John can smell himself on Sherlock’s skin, shuddering at the shockwave of arousal hitting him squarely in the guts in response to it.

“You drive me _mad_ , Sherlock,” he pants, his tongue running along the insides of Sherlock’s lips, luxuriating in his familiar taste. “Mmhhh.”

Sherlock moans and lets go of him, hastily attempting to unbutton his cuffs, but John runs his fingers down his arms and gently grabs his hands to keep him from doing so. They part with a low, smacking sound and look at each other, breathing heavily.

“Slowly,” John mutters. He wants to savour this. “Let me. Okay?”

Sherlock inhales a long gulp of air and squeezes John’s fingers in his, briefly, before letting them go again. Then he nods.

John smiles.

He opens one cuff first, then the other, stroking the delicate skin at the insides of Sherlock’s wrists and enjoying the soft beat of his pulse against the pads of his fingers.

“Gorgeous,” he says as he pops open the first button of Sherlock’s shirt, the purple fabric making a whispering sound as it slides against his fingers. “My sweet, lovely man.” Another button, and another one. Sherlock’s chest rises and falls beneath his hands, warm and alive and _his_.

He follows the path his fingers take with his lips, planting tender kisses here and there as he makes his way down his front. Then he has to stop to pull the shirt out of the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers, and there’s the last button. And when that one has been opened as well, the only thing left is skin; milky white and perfect, dusted with small clusters of freckles and gleaming in the moonlight filtering in through the curtains.

Sherlock has gone very, very quiet.

“Sherlock. My love,” John breathes and kisses his sternum. “Want you so much,” he says. “Want every inch of you.” He then moves to the left to find Sherlock’s nipple and flick it with his tongue, turning it into a hard, pebbled nub.

Sherlock utters a strangled moan that goes right to John’s heart—and between his legs. His cock is straining against his pants, begging to be freed, but he tries to ignore his own need for the time being. This is about Sherlock. He can wait.

“Sshhh…” he tells Sherlock and himself in equal measure. “Soon.”

Ever so slowly, he pushes the shirt off Sherlock’s shoulders and down his arms, and it falls to the floor with a soft, rustling sound.

Sherlock is standing before him, his mouth slack, his eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused, not moving at all.

“Your turn...” John says lowly and grins up at the taller man, who seems to shake himself out of his stupor. He raises his hands to the hem of John’s jumper, tugging carefully.

 _“John,”_ Sherlock says, in a tone so desperate, so unlike his usual one that John wishes he could record it just to show him its beauty later on. “Up.”

He obeys and lifts his arms, and Sherlock pulls the jumper up and over his head and drops it behind himself carelessly. He then mirrors John’s actions from before and divests him of his shirt, albeit a little faster and with less detours caused by kissing his torso. (Their difference in height would make that sort of difficult; John has to give him that.)

“You’re beautiful, too,” Sherlock says earnestly. He bends down to kiss John’s bullet scar, and John immediately gets so lost in the sensation that he nearly forgets where he is. “John,” Sherlock exhales, his breath tickling the mangled skin.

John is fond of pet names; he calls Sherlock _love_ ,  _darling_ , or, when he’s feeling playful and/or aroused, _baby_. Sherlock, on the other hand, calls him _John_.

It’s perfect.

No one has ever said his name like that before, and the many variations that Sherlock uses in different contexts—impossible to keep apart by an outsider, but filled with multitudes of meaning to John—are enough to last him a lifetime.

“Trouser buttons,” John says abruptly, patting around Sherlock’s lower abdomen, but getting sidetracked by the softness of his skin and the very enticing trail of wispy curls starting just below his navel.

“Would you like some assistance?” Sherlock quips and sends him a loving smile.

“Idiot,” John retorts absent-mindedly—perhaps his favourite nickname of all. He tries to gather his wits and open the much too intricate fastenings of Sherlock’s trousers, which apparently have to be secured from unwanted plundering by a button, a little hook,  _and_ a zipper.

“Who’s the impatient one now?” Sherlock asks when John has finally won the fight and pushed the smooth black fabric down his long legs, a little more forcefully than would have been strictly necessary.

John purses his lips and looks up at him, raising one eyebrow, and then he shimmies out of his own, already open trousers by wiggling his hips. He attempts to do so more or less seductively, and he apparently succeeds, judging by the way Sherlock bites down on his lip and inhales a loud, shaky breath through his nose.

John gives him a crooked smirk and goes down on his knees in front of him, his palms running over his hips, then his thighs, down the sides of his calves and to his ankles. Sherlock lifts one foot, then the other, to help him take off his socks. Once his feet are bare, John caresses up the back of his legs again, and then he cups his arse and pulls him in to nuzzle the crease of his thigh, inhaling deeply, filling his lungs with the warm, unique scent of Sherlock.

“Oh, God—” Sherlock chokes out hoarsely. “ _John._ ”

John senses Sherlock’s legs go weak when the other man groans and holds onto his shoulders for support, and he smiles against the dark purple silk of his boxers. He breathes a hot puff of air into it, his cheek pressed into the hardness hiding underneath. He bites down on the fabric bunching up under his mouth then, bites down hard, and he’s never done anything like this before, but fortunately it’s much easier than it looks. Sherlock watches him as he pulls the garment down using only his teeth, and the expression of absolute rapture on his usually so calm and composed features leaves every cell in his body singing with pride.

He did this. He put this look on Sherlock’s face.

He’s the only one who’s allowed to, and he always will be.

“You are exquisite,” John whispers. He waits until Sherlock has stepped out of his boxers and kicked them aside, and then, not taking his eyes off of him, he goes back in to tongue-kiss the tender bit of flesh where his hip meets his thigh. “And you taste incredible.”

He glides his hands back to his arse, squeezing the strong muscles and marvelling at the way they twitch in response. “Stunning.” He nibbles his way down towards his bollocks, and he licks him there as well. “My darling.” The vein on the underside of Sherlock’s cock throbs against his lips as he trails them up and down the length of it, not quite sucking, but just dipping the tip of his tongue against it in a random pattern.

When John finally takes the crown into his mouth to suckle lightly, Sherlock clenches his teeth, inhaling sharply. His eyes cloud over with desire as he moves his hands from John’s shoulders to his head to weave his fingers through his hair—not, John knows, to hold him in place or push him away, but to ground himself.

“John,” Sherlock begs, voice trembling. _“Please.”_

John smiles up at him, letting him rest on the flat of his tongue, his sharp, slightly bitter flavour tickling his palate. Then, after a final long, languid suck, he lets him go.

“Delicious,” he rumbles. “I could do this forever.”

Sherlock exhales a breathy laugh. “I’m afraid _I_ couldn’t. You’re much too good at this.” He administers a light slap to John’s right shoulder, then points at the bed. “Go sit down over there.”

The tone of his voice is gentle, but determined.

John rises and sits down where Sherlock has indicated, and Sherlock follows before lowering himself onto his knees on the bedside carpet. He takes John’s foot into his lap; he doesn’t waste any more time getting John naked all the way. Soon, his pants and socks have joined the assortment of scattered pieces of clothing on the floor. “ _My_ turn...” he says as he smiles a wicked, but insanely alluring smile.

John looks down at where he kneels on the floor between his legs and swallows thickly before gripping the edge of the mattress to brace himself.

Sherlock bends down to kiss the tip of his cock, then opens his mouth and lets him slip inside, so slowly that it’s almost painful. His tongue moves against every single one of his most sensitive spots simultaneously, or so it seems to John.

“Fuck,” John groans under his breath. “ _Fuck._ ”

Sherlock hums, thus sending a series of very, _very_ intense vibrations down John’s shaft, and John moans and bucks against his face in reflex.

“ _Oh_ God! _Ngh!_ ”

His entire midsection is on fire, and for a brief moment he reconsiders his plan to take all of this slow and make it last as long as possible. Sherlock’s divine mouth makes it quite difficult to think, and even more difficult to hold back.

Sherlock, ever so observant, seems to guess what’s going on inside of him, because he pulls back and grins, then kisses down John’s length to nuzzle his bollocks and nip at the tender skin with his lips.

“Want me to stop…?” he asks huskily, moving further down still.

John groans in sweet agony.

“No, you— _oh._ Yes! _Stop!_ ”

Sherlock blinks up at him, a vision of innocence, and removes his tongue from where it was busy rubbing teasing circles against John’s perineum.

“If you insist,” he mutters, sounding somewhat petulant, yet pleased with himself.

“Come here,” John instructs as he shuffles backwards to sit in the middle of the bed.

Sherlock obeys, getting up onto the bed as well. He spreads his legs over John’s, sitting face-to-face and framing John’s hips with his thighs, reversing the position they held earlier. John puts his arms around him to pull him even closer against himself. “I want to do this properly,” he then says, kissing Sherlock’s cheek. “I’m in the mood for it tonight...Is that okay with you?”

Sherlock bumps their noses together and nods.

“Yes,” he answers. “Whatever you wish, John.”

John tilts his head and gazes at him lovingly. Sherlock obviously reads this as an invitation to go in for a kiss, and for a while they lose themselves in it, kissing as if there was no tomorrow. Sherlock, firmly in John’s lap, wraps himself around him tightly, with both his arms and legs. John buries his hands in his tousled hair and sinks into the sensation of absolute belonging that fills him at feeling him cling to him like this.

Even now, after all those years, he sometimes still can’t believe it’s real: how much he loves Sherlock, and how much Sherlock loves him back.

He trails his palms down Sherlock’s long, lean back, very gently. His breath hitches as he traces the gnarly ridges of the scars littering it with his fingertips, trying desperately not to think about how he’d nearly lost him back then.

He’ll never lose him again.

When he reaches the top of Sherlock’s buttocks and caresses the two soft dimples at the base of his spine, Sherlock huffs into the kiss, rocking his hips, pushing himself against John’s front and trapping their erections between their bodies. John cups his arse to encourage his movements and helps him to establish a lazy, dragging rhythm of back and forth. They keep it up for a while, kissing and grinding against one another.

John eventually breaks their connection to look at Sherlock and grips his sides to hold him still. “Can you reach the drawer from here?” he asks. “Lube.”

Sherlock, red-cheeked and panting a bit, turns his head to look behind himself. In a few graceful movements, he leans back to make a long arm and retrieve the required item without having to leave John’s lap, passes the bottle to John, and wraps his arms back around him.

John snaps the lid open, pours some of the cool liquid into his cupped hand to warm it, aware of Sherlock’s eyes following his every movement. After putting the bottle aside, he reaches down to envelop both their cocks at the same time, spreading the slickness with slow, deliberate strokes.

“Oh,” Sherlock whispers and leans his forehead against John’s as he looks down to watch. John smiles and returns the pressure, allowing his fingers free rein.

The wetness now covering their skin makes every touch feel ten times more intense, so he takes his time to caress Sherlock and himself from tip to base and back, over and over again; to rub the glistening heads of their cocks together and revel in the sparks of pleasure that particular contact sends up his spine. He’d be content to just keep doing this, slowly and lazily, until they both come all over his hand.

Sherlock, however, seems to have other plans. He cranes his head to kiss John’s ear. “I want you,” he whispers, taking John’s earlobe into his mouth and sucking at it for a second. “Inside.”

John’s heart misses a beat before it begins to thump loudly against his ribs in excitement. “Yes,” he nearly chokes. “God, yes.”

Sherlock puts his hands onto John’s shoulders to push himself up into a kneeling position, and then he takes John’s wrist in a gentle grip. “Like that,” he murmurs. “John.” He guides John’s hand between his legs, down past his scrotum and right between his buttocks, and then he lets go, staring down at him with wide, expectant eyes.

John tries to breathe evenly, but fails.

How did he ever get so lucky? Sherlock looks _ethereal_ like this, all pale skin and sharp angles, and he’s inviting him in without hesitation.

“I love you, Sherlock,” he tells him, for what feels like the hundredth time that night, as he begins to circle Sherlock’s opening to spread some slickness there. “And I’m so proud to be the one you’ve chosen.”

Sherlock gasps as John enters him with the tip of his middle finger, and John feels him convulse around the intrusion, trying to push him out in an involuntary reflex.

“That’s it, love,” John tells him, steadying his hip with his free hand. “Relax.”

Sherlock swallows and closes his eyes.

“Trying,” he sighs.

“Are you in pain?” John asks tenderly. "We can stop." And that would be okay. Some nights it just doesn’t work out; it has happened to them before. He couldn’t bear hurting him.

“No.” Sherlock clears his throat, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Just give me a moment.”

John caresses his thigh and keeps his finger right where it is, waiting for Sherlock’s body to get accustomed to it. The longer he waits, the more he feels the muscles gripping him give way.

“Now,” Sherlock eventually says in a small, shaky voice John has only ever heard him use in the bedroom. A voice for him, and him only. “You can— _now_.”

So John pushes, sliding into Sherlock’s tight warmth all the way up to his knuckle. Sherlock whimpers; it’s a wonderful, primal sound of longing that spurs John on to try and make him utter it once more. So he pulls his hand away to thrust inside again, and within the blink of an eye, Sherlock’s turned to putty in John’s hands.

“ _John_ ,” he moans, his legs beginning to tremble.

“Yeah,” John says roughly, marvelling at the spectacle before him. “That’s it. I’ve got you. Let go.” He repeats the movement of his hand, again and again, and then a second finger joins the first.

“ _Ungh!_ ” Sherlock moans, and he loses all control. He falls forwards to hide his face in the crook of John’s neck, his lower body bearing down on the hand giving him pleasure and demanding more, _more_.

“Oh _Sherlock_ , oh God, _yes_ ,” John rambles. He crooks both fingers and nudges Sherlock’s prostate, then presses into it and massages it with his fingertips, trying for the quick, rhythmic circles Sherlock always enjoys so much. “You’re so good, so fucking gorgeous— _God_.”

Sherlock bites his good shoulder, none too gently, and sobs into his skin.

“Sshh,” John hisses, wincing in pain.

“More,” Sherlock demands, and there are real tears in his voice now. “Please— _more_.”

So John gives him what he asks for.

He stretches him open carefully, feels him breathe around it. Sherlock is opening up more and more, his body pulling him in, and John is overwhelmed by the realisation that he’s the only person in the world who’s ever seen him in this state of complete and utter surrender.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs into his ear, his nose buried in the mussed-up curls sticking to his temple. “You’re being so, so good for me.”

On the next thrust, he slowly and gently presses in even deeper, then twists his hand to nudge Sherlock's sweet spot again.

“Nngh!” Sherlock stifles his wail by sinking his teeth into his own arm instead of John’s this time, hanging onto him, completely out of his mind, a quivering mess.

“You’re ready,” John tells him, and it’s about time, too—he’s light-headed with lust by now. “Come here.” He pulls his hand away and wipes it on a corner of the sheet, too impatient to get a tissue from the bedside table. He needs it now. _Now_.

Sherlock’s body is limp and heavy when he manoeuvers him into his lap again and helps him to sling his legs around his waist, but when John slips his hands under his arse to lift him up and give himself space to enter him, he suddenly comes back to life.

“Yes,” he slurs and pulls himself up and against John’s front to make room. John aligns his cock with his opening and then guides him back down and onto himself.

“Ahhh…  _Christ,”_ he breathes, biting his lip, his eyes closing out of their own accord.

Inch by slow inch, Sherlock’s heat engulfs him, slick and pliant and yet _so_ tight. Sherlock grunts against his temple and runs his nails down his spine in an erratic, fumbling fashion, casting about for something to hold onto as his body opens up to accept John’s presence inside itself.

“I’ve got you, nnngh, Sherlock,” John pants against his neck and kisses him there. “I’ve—got you.”

It seems to take forever, but then, finally, they’re there, and John holds Sherlock very close and rocks him, ever so gently, back and forth in his embrace. His lids flutter open again.

“You feel incredible,” he whispers. “So, so good.”

Sherlock looks up and gives him a crooked smile; he almost looks high.

“Kiss me,” John tells him, because he's starving for it. “Come on. Kiss me. Now.”

Sherlock leans into him and does, and John kisses back and slowly starts to thrust. In this position he has neither a lot of room nor leverage to go hard, but the feeling of being one, of touching each other everywhere at once, makes up for his limited range of motion a thousandfold. Sherlock follows his lead and gives back in kind, rubbing his cock against his stomach whenever he lifts his hips, and after a while they manage to find each other in a rhythm that works for both of them.

They’ve stopped talking. The only sounds breaking the silence of the room are those of wet, hungry kisses, heavy breathing, and the occasional slapping of skin against skin. The air around them is thick with perspiration and the scent of sex. Sherlock tastes delicious, of salt and himself, and John sucks his tongue into his mouth again and again, addicted to it. He's soaked in sweat, burning all over, but he's not done yet, oh, far from it. This is perfect. It's slow and tantalising, the way they move together, and it hasn't felt like this for a long while. Sherlock feels more open, somehow, more vulnerable, but also so much more receptive than usual, and John is sure that it has something to do with him shaking off a few of the demons of his past today.

“I love you,” John mouths against his lips, but no sound comes out.

He can sense Sherlock smile in response.

They keep going. John has no idea what time it is or for how long they’ve been at it by now, and he doesn’t care. His whole world right now is Sherlock, there in his arms, giving him all of himself, and nothing else is important anymore.

Sherlock’s hands are clasping the back of John’s neck, sometimes straying towards his head to restlessly ruffle his hair. His cock, still slicked up from before and so, _so_ hard, keeps slipping against his front, and he can feel it pulse and throb against his skin. They share the same breath, keeping their faces pressed against each other even when they separate to catch some air, which happens from time to time, but never lasts very long—eventually they end up kissing again, drinking in each other’s moans, their lips swollen and raw, and it never seems to be enough. The sheer intimacy of the act is beautiful, and John thinks that if he was a tiny bit younger, he could probably do this all night long.

But he’s not that young anymore. And Sherlock isn’t, either, which becomes apparent a short while later.

“John,” he mumbles, drawing out of the kiss to suck in a gasping breath. “My legs.”

“Mmhhh…Getting numb?” John asks and opens his eyes, having a hard time to focus, because he can somehow feel Sherlock speak from where he is embedded in his body, and it’s a glorious sensation.

“Yes…”

Sherlock looks completely wrecked already. It’s quite a sight to behold.

“Okay…” John puts his hands around Sherlock’s thighs and gives him a peck on the lips. “Keep your legs wrapped around me and hold on tight…and when I tell you to, lean back slowly.”

Sherlock nods, his arms falling to his sides to prop himself up against the bed.

“Now,” John says.

He sort of expects them to fail spectacularly and end up in a painful knot of limbs, but, to his pleasant surprise, it works out fine. He gets on his knees while Sherlock sinks back and onto the mattress, and he catches himself with one arm and almost slips out of him in the process—but only almost. When it’s done and John has come to rest on top of him, Sherlock gazes up at him and grins tenderly.

“I’m impressed,” he whispers. And then, raising his hand to brush a few stray strands of hair that have fallen into John’s forehead aside: “Thank you.”

John’s heart melts, the surge of affection filling him at Sherlock’s words building a strange contrast to the fire of want burning inside his veins.

This is his man.

The love of his life.

The most fascinating creature in the universe.

He wants to be gentle with him, worship him in every possible way, fulfil his every wish—and at the same time he wants to take him apart, make him shout his name in the throes of passion, make him shatter to pieces around him and then put him back together again. He feels faint with it, and powerful.

“Anything for you,” he replies lowly, because it’s true.

Sherlock rolls his hips upwards, and the expression on his face changes ever so slightly, turns subtly lascivious, making John shiver deep inside.

“Make love to me,” Sherlock tells him.

It’s rare for him to spell it out like that, and John treasures every occasion on which it happens. He bends down for a kiss.

“Anything,” he repeats.

Then he begins to move.

He can tell right away that it won’t take long now, not in this position, which allows him to go deep with ease, to reach places he wasn’t able to reach when Sherlock was still sitting in his lap. He doesn’t mind too much; it seems like a natural progression from the slow, lazy start they had, and from the way Sherlock is holding on to him now, breathing hard, his whole large frame vibrating with pleasure, he deduces that he’d probably agree.

“ _Baby_ ,” John whispers into his ear, over and over again. “Mmh, baby, _yes_.”

He thrusts from below to hit Sherlock’s prostate and tries to drag his abdomen along the underside of his cock as he speeds up his pace. He needs him to get there first.

“ _John_ —” Sherlock suddenly blurts out. “I’m—”

John raises his head and looks at him, desperately trying to make the depth of his love for him show on his face, and Sherlock returns his gaze with wild, wide-open eyes and sobs, biting his lip to stifle the sound.

“ _Yes_ ,” John pants, spurring him on. “Do it!”

A low, choked-off growl makes its way out of Sherlock’s chest, and then his lower body jerks off the bed and he throws back his head in abandon, his eyes going out of focus, his mouth opening in a completely silent scream.

“ _God_ ,” John moans.

A pulse of thick, liquid warmth shoots into the space between them, and another one, and then, after bucking and thrashing and almost throwing John off himself in the heat of the moment, Sherlock goes limp again and slumps back into the bed, his head lolling, his hands randomly roaming John’s back and shoulders, and his eyes still glazed over with the impact of his release.

“ _Oh_ God—” he moans, his voice catching in the back of his throat. “John…”

John continues to thrust, feeling the tell-tale tug of his climax build in his loins and goes faster still, chasing it. He can’t answer. Can’t breathe. Can’t _think_. Sherlock’s slack body is offering little to no resistance now, but his inner walls are still undulating around him, rippling with the aftershocks running through his system, and he’s almost there now, almost, yes, God, Sherlock, Sherlock—

“ _Sher_ —,” he gasps, his voice failing him. “Ah, ah-hah—!”

He pounds into him and comes, spills himself into the wet heat surrounding his cock, and it’s so good that his vision goes black for a moment. He can hear Sherlock chanting his name as if from far away, over and over again.

_John. John. Oh, yes, John._

It seems to go on for a very long time.

He shudders through it, his face pressed into Sherlock’s neck, and then, gradually, his movements slow down, and so does the whirling mess of colours and noises filling his brain. He’s tingling all over.

“Sherlock,” he rasps again, upon which a hand comes up to stroke the back of his head.

“Sshhh, John…” Sherlock hushes him. “I’m here.”

John’s heart is hammering against his ribs as if it wants to burst out of his chest. Struggling to fill his lungs with oxygen, he stops thrusting, but stays buried inside Sherlock’s body, not ready to let go yet. Sherlock slings one long leg around his thighs and keeps him there, obviously approving of the idea of staying entwined a bit longer.

“Sshhh,” he says again.

They breathe together, hearts beating in unison, and John is just about to drift off when Sherlock begins to shiver in his arms.

He looks up and squints at him.

“Cold?”

Sherlock, still looking marvellously debauched, smiles tiredly.

“A bit.”

John sighs, gives him a kiss on the side of his jaw, and orders his muscles to cooperate. When he finally pulls away, the mess of sweat and semen sticking their fronts together makes a comical squelching sound, breaking the spell of quiet, serene bliss that’s been lingering in the air. They laugh.

“And they say romance is dead,” John jokes softly and sits up.

Sherlock just grins and stretches like a lazy cat, the very epitome of sated contentment.

Still feeling dizzy and weak in the knees, John gets out of bed and gets a wet flannel from the bathroom, which he then uses to clean both of them up—first Sherlock, who gives himself over to it with closed eyes, very obviously revelling in the sensation of warm water caressing his too-cool skin, then himself. Afterwards, he throws the flannel into the hamper in the corner, then unlocks the bedroom door. When he turns back around, Sherlock is already half asleep, curled up in foetal position, his wild riot of dark curls the only thing visible amidst the white mass of pillows and sheets.

John smiles to himself and slips into bed beside him, wrapping his arm around him from behind and bringing his front flush against his back. Sherlock is warm and soft and feels like heaven, and he closes his eyes and settles in to go to sleep as well. They normally don’t sleep in the nude, not after the first time Rosie had a nightmare and found them here stark naked and still caught up in the afterglow, but he thinks they’ll be alright just this once.

He’s dozing off when Sherlock stirs again.

“John?” he asks, his voice hushed and very young.

“Yes?” John rumbles and kisses the back of his neck.

“I could never have done this without you, you know,” he says sleepily.

John chuckles before kissing his neck once more. “I should think not,” he says, amused.

Sherlock huffs and lightly swats him on the thigh. “I didn’t mean _this,”_ he retorts, gesturing towards their naked bodies. “I meant... _everything._ What I was able to do today, but...not only that.” His fingers roam up John’s thigh to his hand, and he intertwines their fingers. “What I mean to say is…I know that sometimes, I’m seen as ‘the great Sherlock Holmes’—the tall man with the funny hat who solves crimes. But John—”

John rests his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and smiles. “Yes?”

“It’s you, John Watson,” Sherlock says simply. “ _You’re_ the remarkable one. My conductor of light, my constant, the great love of my life, and—I wouldn’t be here without you. I owe you everything.”

John’s eyes begin to prickle, along with a slight tickle of his throat. He squeezes Sherlock’s hand, nuzzling his nose against his cheek and placing a small kiss there. “You owe me nothing,” he insists. “We’re partners, Sherlock. Partners in crime, and partners in life. And everything we’ve done together…it always has been, and always will be, my honour and privilege.”

John can feel Sherlock’s cheeks move as a smile forms on his face, and he hums happily. “Partners in crime, and partners in life,” he agrees. “Forever.”

John nods against Sherlock’s neck, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him in tightly before echoing Sherlock’s words.

“Yes,” he says contentedly. “Forever.”


End file.
